


The Small Concerns of Peace

by Potboy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:42:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25266283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potboy/pseuds/Potboy
Summary: A vignette of daily life in Imladris, inspired by comments about sexism in elvish society, and the fact that Tolkien himself said that the only activity the elves segregated by gender was the baking of Lembas--everything else was unisex.
Relationships: Celeborn/Galadriel | Artanis, Celebrían/Elrond Peredhel
Comments: 12
Kudos: 55





	The Small Concerns of Peace

"I like this one, Adar." Elladan turned swiftly, examining the swing of the new cloak in the polished steel mirror.

"Grey again, my son?" Elrond looked up from the bolt of silk he had been admiring - it glowed like beaten rubies and would surely feel like summer evenings on the skin.

"I like grey," Elladan fingered the knap of the cloth and smiled at his father, "We are not all such peacocks as you. And it is traditional. Practical too. I could hardly ride with the Rangers, or hunt orcs in the cinnamon - or even the emerald one."

The Master of Imladris sighed and looked out over the half-yearly market, glad to see so many of his folk peacefully prospering. His son had lifted an array of belts and was checking each one against the grey cloak to see the match or contrast. The breeze lifted Elladan's black hair - rougher than an elf's, sleeker than a Man's - and spilled it like ink across his face. "No," said Elrond, and wished the new belt were simply for show, and not for a sword, "But you could hunt a wife in it. You cannot tell me it is your mortal blood that makes you so slow to give me grandchildren."

"Adar!" Elladan gave him a look of long-suffering rebuke, and turned away to shop for perfect white swan feathers - for the fletchings of arrows.

***

Celebrian feinted left in a crescent cut towards her mother's ribs, followed it through with a high right-handed stab to the face. Ignoring the feint, Galadriel ducked beneath the second thrust and scissored both her blunted blades along her daughter's ribs.

"Orc spit!" said Celebrian ruefully, wiping her cuff over her glowing face. They had been at this all morning, and still she had not managed to find a way through the canny defences of the Lady of Lorien.

Galadriel laughed, unwinding the rope of her hair from where it lay - neatly out of the way - around her throat. "You cannot expect to catch me with one of your Adar's moves."

"It is a new combination for me." Celebrian protested. Indeed, she had learned it from her father only yesterday, and been proud of how easily it came to her hand today.

"Aye, and a good one against anyone else, but for him it is a hundred years old. He and I have sparred together often enough for it to hold no surprise for me."

The sun was almost directly overhead, and the lawn bathed in too bright a sunlight. From the other side of the Homely House came the cheerful calls and merry singing of the market. Celebrian put the heavy, blunted swords away in their box and took the cup of water her mother offered.

"You do not practice with Elrond?"

She could feel him, surrounded by colour in the middle of all Imladris' life; as strong and gentle as summer, worrying at the problem of their children. "He is a healer, Naneth - even the memory of taking life disturbs the talent. I do not like to ask him."

"Arwen then? You cannot tell me she does not need to train."

Celebrian sighed and turned her gaze from the far off market place to the slate roofs and chimneys of the various smithies. She wondered if her mother had ever felt as puzzled and frustrated by her idiosyncrasies as she did by her own children's. "She needs to. But she does not want to. I swear, all she wants to do is embroider, and listen to love songs all day long. She will dance, if I prod her to, but she won't take to a single weapon. She is dutiful and silent and beautiful and ... I know not what to do with her! Is this unnatural, Mother? Will she grow out of it?"

Galadriel laughed like the far off, melodious lilt of the Bruinen. "Where is she now?"

"I sent her to the forge, to see if Halmenel can wake in her an interest in smith craft. Though I doubt it..."

"Come then, let me see what I can do."

***

"And he will not stop nagging us about it." Elrohir built up the fire in the oven until its baked clay sides were glowing with heat, then he wiped his hands and returned to beating up the egg whites into stiff peaks. With the household given a holiday to attend the market, the great kitchens of Imladris were empty and peaceful, sunlight streaming into the high arched spaces, making the huge fire on its hearth seem pallid - a strange, bone coloured flame. Several hunting dogs were curled up there, their yellow eyes fixed on the two cooks in hope of scraps. A fly buzzed around the dark iron of the chandelier, and there came a cool air from the pantry as Elrohir's grandfather returned with a pat of butter and settled down to making pastry.

"It's understandable," Celeborn shrugged, "All parents desire to see their children safely through the anxiety of courtship and happily settled."

"Daeradar!" Elrohir scowled, receiving this attack where he sought sympathy. He folded the eggwhites into the cheese mixture and spooned the soufflé mix into small bowls.

"And your parents have the additional worry of not knowing which kindred you will chose. If you were to marry an elf-maid they would be sure of you." Celeborn gestured with the rolling pin, sending up a spray of flour. "I know the fear that you will chose a mortal life is a constant burden on your mother. Besides, in the generality of things, Men tend to wed around twenty five and the Eldar around fifty. You are late either way."

Looking about for a cloth, Elrohir grimaced. He wrapped the trailing ends of his sleeves around his hands and - thus shielded - opened the hot metal door of the oven, lifting the bowls inside. "And of course you and Daernana were wed as soon as you met. Not to mention Adar and Naneth. It seems to me that being laggard is a trait of our house, and none of you have cause to question it."

Celeborn laughed, leaned out over the open fire to lift the small cauldron off the flames and proceeded to spoon stewed apple and cinnamon into the pie base he had made. "Say not 'laggard' - if you say 'cautious' you will be closer." Smilingly he put the lid on the pie, pinched it closed, and laid on the small swans of pastry which - in some fit of whimsy - he had made to swim over the top, fixing them on with egg white. "And in truth I agree with you, rather than your parents. Marriage is a serious business, and you only have one chance to get it right. Better to wait until you are certain."

***

Halmenel faced two sets of elegantly arched eyebrows - one silver, one gold - with something like equanimity.

"My daughter?" said Celebrian frostily, "Who was supposed to be here..."

He nodded to the back of the smithy. An open window framed a view of flower-speckled meadow, where long grass and poppies trailed down to the alder-lined banks of the river. There, radiant as a figure out of legend, Arwen danced. Her dark hair trailed her like shadow, and her bare feet flashed like pearl beneath the hem of her blue dress. Larks sang in the sky above her, and her smiling face was as fair as the moon; her eyes like stars. At the sight Galadriel breathed in, sharply, as though a blow had got past her guard and winded her.

"O Elbereth!' she said, and turned away, hugging herself.

"Naneth?" Celebrian forgot her concern for her children in this new need of her mother's. She took hold of Galadriel's arm supportively.

The Lady of Lorien looked into her face with eyes which were bright with new tears. "Do not try to shape her life," she said, "No perceived failing should come between a parent and their child. Who knows when they might be taken from us? If she will not turn her hand to forestry or masonry or politics, does it matter? Accept her for the marvel she is, before it is too late."

A chill settled on Celebrian's heart. "What doom do you foresee?"

But Galadriel shook her head and smiled wanly. "I see nothing - ancient memories, no more. I have, perhaps, fought too hard and eaten too little, and am fatigued. Shall we go to lunch?"

***

The board had been set with a cloth of verdant green. Glorfindel had just finished twining together a decorative arrangement of long-stemmed marigolds, and was admiring the softness of Elladan's new grey cloak, as Elrond and Celebrian settled themselves at the head of the table. Seeing Elrond always lightened Celebrian's mood, and it did so now - there was something about the kindness of his storm-grey eyes, the aura, faint but deep, of ancient untapped power. If the children of Elrond were not safe, who was?

Elrohir brought in the fruit of his labours in the kitchen - a pottage of barley and herbs, and soufflés like golden-brown, cheese-flavoured clouds. She thought suddenly - as she had not for some years, ever since she began to worry about their futures - how proud she was of them _now_. The Twins were accomplished warriors, but not without finer, delicate skills. And Arwen had time enough to develop other crafts, or even, should she choose to concentrate on embroidery, become a great artist in that medium.

The scent of apple pie insinuated itself into the noon brilliance of the hall. Outside, shoppers laughed and squabbled in the marketplace, and at the table Galadriel sniggered slightly behind her hand at a comment from Celeborn. Arwen was teasing Elladan over one of his admirers, and Celebrian felt that today should not be overwhelmed by the threat of tomorrow. _Because the present moment is all we have. And look... It is good._


End file.
